Madame Imperfection
by Magnipotence
Summary: There isn't a soul inside the Hetalian Complex who is perfect in any way. M for Content. (TRIGGER WARNINGS: Drug Use/Alcohol, OCD, Schizophrenia, annorexia/bullima, paedophilia, and self-esteem.)


_Madame ImPerfection_

**WARNING: TRIGGER ALERT.  
**(Drug Use/Alcohol, OCD, Schizophrenia, annorexia/bullima, paedophilia, and self-esteem.)

X

"_You__ are turning into sorrow with opinions and opinions. Nobody can hear you. Nobody can hear you.  
This is psychosis, this is psychosis. This is a jigsaw blown apart."_

_- Ghosts of Utopia _by IAMX

X

There is an unspoken rule known by them all that they must retain normalcy when they leave for the outside world. The rules ring within their heads, echoing in tune with a distant clock, when they step outside their threshold that perfection is the key and normalcy is the answer. The rule must be followed, no exceptions even allowed to be thought of, and to break such would destroy everything they live and at last crumple their false house of cards.

The members of the Hetalian complex, down on five and sixth in the city of nothing and the country of everything, believe the risks to be too high for such thoughts. Their lifestyle is too good. Too good for them.

Some might protest that such ugly people should not deserve the luxury they do, but it's no lie that they're all selfish and that they all a beating breathe that moves in the same rhythm.

_ Normalcy must be obtained. Perfection is imminent. The rule must not be **breached.**_

The rule is their guide. Some say it could be their God. Simply, it keeps them from an endless holocaust of destruction.

Each member of the complex has a problem, but they also have their roles. They must retain normalcy and master the impossible art of imperfection lest the world discovers their hell-hole of deformity and impossibility manned by friendly service with a smile of locked doors and barred windows.

Though they're convincing, enough for some believe that their own problems are merely fragments of bad dreams that have latched onto their souls, their problems still exist and the normalcy they pretend is merely a well thought out façade to keep the destruction at bay.

Perfection is not them. Their guise to the outside world as so is only another one of their very many faults. They are not perfect.

After all, no one who lives in the Hetalian Complex ever is.

X

_**Arthur Kirkland**_: Apartment No.: 209, Resident #278

The world is out to get him.

They want him, Arthur Kirkland, _dead._

There is no other explanation for it. Simply – the world is out to get him. They attempt with their petty ways to drown him in the light of day and force his problems to the world to see. They want him destroyed, gone, beaten down to nothing for the mere satisfaction that he no longer exists. They want him gone and for what? What has he ever done to deserve such _treatment _from the strangers of the world whose very being has no connection to him! Despite his sheer importance and vast knowledge of the whims and ways that is the bacterium called human life, he is of no importance to _them. _So in the darkness of his apartment, curled up in his early twentieth century armchair by the dusty bookshelf, Arthur can come to the only logical solution that the query for his destruction is that they _know._

It's a matter of simple logic! Why else would they hunt and tarry after a lonesome creature such as he? They know. They know his secret and that he sees what no human is ever meant to see and his existence must be exterminated to keep this so. They are after him for his sight – his accursed eyes which are the colour of the finest emeralds – and they will kill him for his ability like so many others before him. Oh how the damned are cursed with the gifts of the Gods!

To keep the world from the truth, in the ignorant shell of Black and White that is Hell and Heaven, Arthur Kirkland certainly must die.

Why all the fuss though over a man who merely lives his life unacquainted with the destructive nature of humanity? Simply, simply, _simply _it isbecause he can _see._

Ever since the accident, he has been to see them. See what? The stupidity of mankind as it scrutinises him from underneath the glass of a microscope? No, no! He can see them. He can hear them. He can _touch _them. What are they? _The faeries _of course!

The magical creatures of a lost world appear to him in the moonlight – tiny and almost minuscule in comparison to himself. They often stare up at him, iridescent eyes bright with satisfaction at last – _at last! – _meeting someone who can truly see them for they truly are. They're beautiful little things that float on the edge of his consciousness when he isn't looking for them or scouring the world for their facts and histories.

So many different kinds! The Fae, fairies, faeries, fayries! Oh,how he yearns to see them all some day in their splendid glory. What shame it is that their existence must be kept a dark secret to spoken only of in dreams and the poorly-written works of sexually-repressed middle-aged mums whose inferior husband cannot satisfy.

Suddenly, he laughs and uncrosses his legs. Maybe he'll write a book one day and take the world by storm with their beauty. With his luck however, the world would only ignore his outcry for the public revealing of the existence of the fey of their kin – proving once more their ignorance as they seek out the next thriller settled deep within their over-sexualised films promoting masculinity and female distress; casually ignoring the creatures that they have shared their world with for millenniums and beyond.

A quick glance at the grandfather clock tells him that it should be around the time that the post would have been delivered. He frowns, realising that to retrieve the post from home that he so preciously covets – the little human contact that doesn't drive him mad with insistent chattering and shot breeze – that he would have to step outside the comfort of his apartment and into the foyer below to retrieve his mail.

He debates on whether it is worth it, but his need for the post and the joy it brings is far too great. Arthur takes off his reading glasses and neatly folds them on top of the book he still hasn't read before standing up and taking a quick moment to stretch. The bones in his back pop and snap, threatening old age before he's even hit his prime. Sometimes his mortality looms in his face far too much for comfort. The trip downstairs is something that never takes too often thankfully, even though he is fond of using the stairs due not only to the fact that the lift reeks of the overbearing scent of failure, semen, and oddly enough – mayonnaise, but because he has yet to let the laziness that rules many other's lives take his own.

When he reaches the wall where the mailboxes possessing his post have accumulated, already unlocking his box and taking out his scarce pile of letters, he realises that he is not alone in the foyer. Francis, that _fucking _Francis who would pass him in the hallways and extend an offer that Arthur wouldn't accept in a thousand years – that goddamn fucking _Francis who kept lording over him the fact that he likes cuddles while he's drunk – _

The very mention of the man makes his blood boil with rage. He paraded around the Apartment Complex as if he was their King, and sometimes it very well felt like they worshipped him as so. He extended an hand of friendship to those that not even the Saints would touch. He lorded over them it seemed, using his sexuality and his fine words as a weapon that not even Napoleon Bonaparte could have possibly managed.

Sometimes his blood freezes when he thinks back to the era of the time back in May where Francis' words had been the reason for his existence, a reason to still be breathing and not be a red smear across the pavement; a promise made by the both of them: that he would continue to live if he could hear those words one more time...

"_Oh silly Arthur," _A vicious little minx murmurs in his ear. "_His pleasantries are the lies and slander of a desperate man! His dreams are to take you to his chambers like a fair maiden and cast you aside when the last echoing sighs of pleasure at last shows its true face to this demon of the night!"_

"He's sleasy, love, but I doubt that he'd have the indecency to cast out his bedmates."

"_It is what he does, Arthur! I am only trying to protect you."_

"I am a grown man."

"_Even the old need their safety."_

"I am not old!" He sneers and momentarily before him, Francis turns away from his conversation with the tall, Danish man that lives in the next door down. The French man catches sight of him and suddenly begins to flit towards him with the graceful strut of a slender cat who has not lost its prime.

"_And so said I, said the spyder to the fly. And oh how the fly was swallowed up!" _

_ "_Ah, I thought I heard your lovely voice! Pray tell, what are you doing here, Arthur? You're not one for people and it's unlike for you to leave your apartment for such a mundane task as _the post." _Damned fool, refusing to even speak the language of the damned country he lived in. As demonic as the americanised version of English could be at given times, bastardized and born from the seed of statutory neglect that its Mother had left it in, it would make sense to at least attempt to politely _speak _its dictated language.

Then again, he could be using French just to make Arthur angry, an action of which he seems to have created an art out of. Lucky for Arthur, he at least knew French.

"Piss off, frog!" Arthur snaps burlesquely, clutching his scarce mail in his hands. Not even a letter from his mum is accounted for. He hasn't heard from any of his family in such a long time...

"Oh, you won't even take up on my offer?" French. Why did the fucker have to speak _French?_

"No, I have better things to do with my time than be your play-toy for the night. Don't you have a century-confused drunken lummox waiting around for this type of thing?"

"_Mathias _is not up for my...'late night activities' as such wish to call them."

"And neither I am. I do not know _where _you get such an assumption that I enjoy the same sort of things you do."

"But on the contrary, my dear Arthur, I have heard things from your neighbours!"

Arthur glares and his emerald eyes become slits of lethal green at the crossing Frenchman. "My _neighbours_, if haven't realised, are absolute _morons_."

"The Italians brothers were never too well with passing stories!" He laughs obnoxiously at his own humour, and then his eyes become serious and his mouth a firm line of coy playfulness. "But what I hear is what I hear, my dear! They tell me that you talk to yourself in the dark night. Say things that just don't quite make sense. They never hear anyone enter or leave the apartment, and everyone is well aware of your odd displeasure for anything that is living. They even say that you sing to the highest heavens with a happiness that seems fortune to most. My, my what do you do, Arthur?"

_"Run, my love! Run! For the Spyder is hungry and he seeks the flesh of the innocent!" _The little fairy in his ear screams for his escape, but he ignores its shrill cries that reverberates his eardrums and stares down at the fool before him.

"Have you ever considered that I might be on the phone with someone?"

"Is that so? I never knew you one that enjoyed night-time calls on the phone. Tell me, who is this person?"

"None of your business."

"What a refreshing name! But alas, one I have heard so many times before. What an odd fellow to be known by so many! As it is, Arthur, who has the honour of listening to your shrill voice every evening?"

"I'll have you know–"

"Ah, who am I kidding? The king of hatred would never bring anyone home. It's better to believe that it was your imaginary friends who caused such noises."

A rages settle deep within Arthur; the birth of such gone unnoticed by the French man in front of him who only smiles the smile of an accomplice that can do no more. For a minute, the man's eyes are sad, but they are immediately replaced with a cocky sky-blue that sets Arthur's blood on _fire._

_ "_I am afraid I must depart, Arthur. One of these you simply _must _introduce me to your friends!"

Francis takes Arthur by the hand, bringing it his lips and kissing the cold stretch of skin on the back of his pale hand. The gesture leaves him gaping for a minute and the fairy shrieks in his ear; it yells of disgust and outrage, distrust and madness, and worst of all: _betrayal. _

Anger suddenly overfills him as he suddenly listens to the fairy's dark words. Thousands of others join in its harmony – yelling and screeching of Francis' betrayal upon his person. The noise rises up, a scream of wails and moans, and crashes down upon like a wave. He breaks for the surface of his nosy prison and rips his hand away from Francis. The offender casts a look of utter surprise at Arthur's boldness and seems suddenly concerned.

_Too _concerned.

"Are you all right, Arthur?" He goes to pull back a tendril of hair, but the Briton moves too quick for him and is suddenly dodging to his right in terms of an escape. Francis just barely grasps onto an arm and is nearly thrown off his own balance as Arthur attempts escape once more.

"Let _go!_" He hisses.

"Arthur, there is nothing wrong here. Have I offended you?"

"It should be simple to someone of your class, _snail. _You've done far more than offend _me. _You've offended all of them – you've cast yourself to their wrath and it is your fault! None of this would have happened what you discovered what the English words 'no' mean!"

"_Their _wrath? Are you talking about your lover? Arthur, if they're abusive –"

"You know very well what I'm talking about. What ever else could I be talking about? I don't have _lovers_, Francis, and never will! Is that hard to understand? No, you've done something completely else and know exactly what it is."

His stare is accusatory, his stance poised and stagnant, as he enters a staredown with the Frenchman. Francis drops his wrist and reaches out for Arthur's cheek, who slaps away the offending appendage. The sudden rage within his veins seems to pulse and groan for more action, but he wills himself to some sort of control.

"You're one of them."

"_Them_? Who are them? Arthur–"

"Don't." He holds up his hand. "I'm leaving. Good-bye, Francis."

"Arthur, what is going on? What have you suddenly decided to rage on about now?"

"It is nothing of _sheer _importance truly. After all, it will be just my death at your hands, Francis, which is something I had hoped not to happen." The sudden coolness of his voice startles the Frenchman. Something is wrong here. Terribly wrong.

"You–"

"_Leave, my love, leave. Your time is done." _Arthur turns his head to the side and purses his lips. He nods once at nothing and then turns. As he begins his descent up the stairs, he shifts through his mail. There is no letter from his mother present. When he passes by the elevator, Alfred steps out from within, gagging all the while as his blue eyes search for a person that he's already missed.

Nearly running, he makes it to his designated floor. The cool interior of his bedroom welcomes him as he steps within. He flips off the light, plunging the room into darkness with only the light of the blue moon reflecting the photographs of long ago to guide his way.

Arthur holds out his finger in a stray of moonlight, watching again in sheer fascination as a small fairy appears from nothing and descends upon the digit. It nibbles into his finger, drawing red blood that glistens in the obscure moonlight. The fairy smiles up at him and its teeth are red with his essence. It calls out to him, crooning in a mother's tone: "_Come to us, come to us Arthur! Come join the fairies in the world of magic..." _He closes his eyes to the familiar tune, reeling in its beauty, but when his pain of a bitten finger suddenly fades – his eyes open up to the darkness and an empty finger that points solemnly at the spinning fan rotating uselessly above his bed. In tune, it creaks not with the song of the faeries, but rather with the call of the lonely that he cannot ignore.

In his head, the faeries scream silently.

X

Next**:_ Francis Bonnefoy_**:[_Fran__ç__ois Bonnefois_]: Apartment No.: 203, Resident #259

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Author's Note: Now, I already know that very few people will read this - both the AN and the whole story together.

This story came from the idea that people often forget about the qualities of the nations that they often always use in some way or another. In the real world, Alfred would not be able to eat so much food without throwing up. In the real world, Ivan would be seen as a alcoholic, and Arthur would be seen as crazy for believing in the fey - well, he would seen as crazy because he's literally _talking to thin air/_voices no one else can hear. Now, people have their excuse: 'but they're nations!1 they do wat they want!1'. I know this and I don't condone anyone that believes that nation = superhuman capabilities. However, a lot of people see them as human, and they still have these qualities present (Ivan's alcholism and Alfred's overeating are very predominant) in their story lines. Sometimes, it fits. Sometimes, it doesn't make sense. People sometimes don't seem to process that Alfred should not be able to eat over twenty Quarter Pounders and stomach it all, and Ivan should be _dead _with all the booze he consumes. Then again, Alfred should also not be able to benchpress Buffalo in a human state, but I digress. People add these qualities in their AU's often. (Again, I am not pissing on anyone's belief. If Alfred is a seventeen year old soccer player or something Amurrican like that and he can stomach down like twenty-nine large fries and six boxes of chicken mcnuggets - then go right ahead man, I'm not stopping you.)

So, after realising that the characters are inhuman even in some AU's, Madame ImPerfection was born.


End file.
